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Twelve million, five hundred fifty thousand, eight hundred twenty-one blocks away, if you want to get technical about it. The name comes from the distance a player must travel in Minecraft to reach ‘The Farlands.’ This is a place where the mathematical rules that control the rendering of the land break down, resulting in spontaneous, foreign, alien features. On top of that, movement becomes aligned to a grid, meaning that the algorithms that smooth out player movement also collapse. Everything feels laggy, although it isn’t. At roughly thirty-two million blocks from the starting point, the variables storing the player’s position overflow. If the game didn’t freeze and crash long before then, the player would likely cease to exist. Such is the ominous nature of the Farlands.

I adopted this name for two reasons. Firstly, the Farlands represent a point at which a game is no longer a game. Defining characteristics are erased, strange and spontaneous problems arise, and things fall apart. In the case of the Farlands, this is caused by events outside of the player’s perception, i.e. the programming and fine-tuning of aesthetics. I adopt this name because, in this blog, I will not simply be reviewing games. I will be picking them apart, defining what about each game makes it a game, and what parts of it fail to meet its own criteria (When it is no longer a game, so to speak.). I will pull apart the inner workings of, not only the aesthetics of the game, but also the psychological effects it has on the player (These would be the ‘events outside of the player’s perception.’). In my reviews, I seek to find the ‘Farlands’ of every game, as well as the reasons behind them.

This is not a video game review blog. This is an insight into the psychological connection and philosophical implication between gaming and the human mind.

For those who are curious, the second reason I chose this name is because Minecraft is pretty fantastic. And I like obscure references to things.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Limbo

Sorry, this is not a flash game, so I cannot give you a link to play it at. It is, however, a very artistic, unique, indie game, and you are welcome to buy and enjoy it.

This game has bothered me for a while. It isn’t that the graphics are bad. They are actually brilliant, all black and white and extra-grainy. The edges of the screen blur out of focus, and the visual feel of it all is that of an old-timey horror movie. It isn’t that the ambience is poor or sketchy. The sounds are sinister, startling, mystical, foreshadowing. Every sound in the game is placed in just the right place to trigger that “jump” from the player. In a secret area of the game, you have to avoid obstacles in pitch black darkness, relying purely on sound. And it’s doable, because the sounds are placed appropriately.

What bothers me so much about this game is that, I cannot, for the life of me, identify what it is that draws the player in. The art and sounds are both great, but the sound’s effectiveness isn’t noticeable until later in the game, and the art isn’t enough to pull a player in alone. There needed to be something, somewhere, which my conscious mind was missing but my subconscious mind couldn’t let go of.

I begin pondering the definition of ‘limbo,’ and have decided on the umbrella definition as ‘in between two opposing states.’ In the context of Inception, it is the state between awake and dreaming. In the context of this game, it is the state between life and death. In the popular game of Limbo (How low can you go?), it is the state between standing and lying down. So whatever it was that I was missing was between two states. That would go along nicely with the theme of the game, and it would also explain why I couldn’t find it.

Wait, why am I running through Limbo? Where am I going, what am I looking for? Who are these people trying to set traps for me? Why is this spider so adamant on killing me that the only way to stop him is to pull off all his limbs and push his head into a pit of spikes? None of these questions are ever answered. The end of the game loosely implies a reason, and the game developer states that a boy goes into limbo to look for his sister, but purely in the context of the game alone, there are no answers. There isn’t even a notification that the character is in limbo. Once the game starts, he just wakes up in a field. There isn’t even a main menu. The first time I saw one was after I beat the game.

It seems that Limbo has no storyline, and that the ending scene ties up loose ends that we didn’t even know were there. The end, being as vague as it is (There isn’t even dialogue), allows players to come to their own conclusions about why the boy’s sister ended up in limbo in the first place, and how the boy got there. There is an end to a story that doesn’t exist until the conclusion of it. The storyline itself is in a state of limbo, between life and death, in a sense. Between existence and non-existence. Between ‘constructed in the game’ and ‘constructed in the player’s mind.’ The unexpected lack of storyline causes the player to naturally come up with their own theories. The game itself does nothing.

For a game to do nothing, psychologically speaking, would seem to be the trademark of a boring, poorly-made game. Except, these games that do not actively incorporate psychology into their mechanics, or they do not have elements that do, they don’t create a void of psychological grip, as in Limbo. They create psychological repulsion. The mechanics cooperate together in a way that is borderline offensive to the instincts of the player, and effectively pushes the player away. To create a void of psychological grip requires mastery over all the mechanics, aligned in such a way that they cover up the lack of other components that would otherwise actively draw, or repulse, the player.

The problem with actively drawing players in is that it is easy to identify, and as soon as it is identified, the player says “Woah. That’s pretty neat,” and, having concluded the addicting mysteries, walks away with a pleasant taste in their mouth. With a void, such as that in Limbo, it prevents the player from identify the addictive properties, and with an unresolved mystery, they don’t walk away. They keep looking, and are drawn in by the fact that nothing is drawing them in. In this regard, psychological gaming is a magic act. Reveal the secret, and you lose the audience. Keep it well hidden, and they will always be asking for more.

Regarding this unusual ‘nothingness,’ the excellent control is possibly the most well-crafted mechanic that aids in covering the lack of captivation. The boy moves as a human would, never coming to a complete stop, but not sliding enough to jeopardize situations. In addition, he can jump what seems like an extraordinary distance in situations that call for it, or very small hops in situations that don’t. Swinging on vines and chains is done in a lifelike way, gaining momentum in a slow, yet steadily increasing manner. The boy behaves like a boy, and it makes it very easy and entertaining to continue playing.

The artistic and highly creative scenarios may be equal to the beauty of the controls. The puzzles span tasks such as using a dead body to set off a trap, rolling a spider carcass into a pit to be able to safely cross it, to using one machine gun to destroy another, and flipping gravity to give you access to otherwise inaccessible areas. The puzzles are incredibly diverse, from simple, clichéd, methods, to completely radical solutions that require you to think outside the box and act as you would in real life (Which is always very different from in games, if you think about it).

These techniques of covering an incredibly captivating void of captivation work out very well for the designers, as well as the players. The lack of storyline, the lack of explanation, the lack of everything you expect in a game, leaves players not only asking “why,” but forming their own reasons as well.

Note: If the art and sound and controls and movements weren’t enough, then hey: There’s 3D, too (Press Shift + 3 + D, to enable, Shift + 2 + D to disable).

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